#axe woves is kinda lost

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"In Dreams, We Wake" (1/?)

Fandom: Star Wars - The Mandalorian

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Type: Multi-chapter Status: Ongoing Warnings: Season 3 spoilers, graphic depictions of violence (some chapters), ptsd, subjects on grief & mourning Story Summary: Two years have passed since Ragnar lived the creed without his father. The boy keeps a facade, hiding his true nature as he leads a double life.

Between his roles as Mandalorian apprentice and heir to an ancient House, Ragnar is willing to weave through a complex path that haunts him and the Vizsla name—if only his father were there to see him again. Perhaps, Paz Vizsla will.

The question remains for Ragnar: What would he do and how far would he go for the father he loves?

Read on AO3 (w/ author's notes) or here:

Chapter Summary: A child is restored. An estranged teacher is concerned for his apprentice. A son dreams while a father sleeps.

O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break. -William Blake, “Cradle Song”

~Chapter 1: A Bittersweet Lullaby~

In a clearing around a crackling fire, a circle of ruffians swayed in drunken stupor, celebrating their spoils of the day. Another village raided, another town razed to the ground; more frightened families were torn down and torn apart.

Amidst the slurred cheers and incoherent talk of various species was the thin and high wailing of an infant. It was the solitary sound that seemed human.

Five Quarren, four Trandoshans, and a massive Devaronian were rolling in their spoils—hard-earned harvests after a long drought, scarce yet valuable pieces of jewelry adorned by ancestral weight, the gold spun in them enough to fetch a decent amount of credits with the right barter. Four towns ransacked and bled dry, with homes shattered and bodies left in their wake. A trail of death would lead a pursuant to this very circle, and yet no authorities gave chase. The New Republic held no sway in these pathetic parts of a galaxy worn down by years of war. 

These raiders, these murderers… they were scot-free.

One of the Trandoshans was vainly shushing an infant to silence, but to no avail. His comrades began to mock him. Was it worth the trouble—this human infant? How large a sum would such fragile life fetch from the slavers? It was a human baby with sensibilities none of them, considering their varied species, was familiar with. Its feeding, care, and upkeep would simply weigh them down. Perhaps it wasn’t worth it.

“We should just eat it,” casually suggested another Trandoshan. The Quarren shook their heads, but not out of disgust for moral reasons. Humans were not palatable and had not really been part of the regular Quarren diet. The Devaronian grinned with eerie quietude in his corner, a towering shadow half-lit by the fire. The three other Trandoshans who accompanied the self-assigned nursemaid were eyeing the infant with sharp, gleaming stares. “It looks like it’s barely half a standard year old. Its meat would be very soft…”

The Trandoshan rocking the squealing infant hissed. “The boss would say otherwise. Better hand this thing over to the boss first and let him decide!”

The Quarren made snide remarks about this particular Trandoshan being such a rump-kisser, always trying to curry favor when their so-called boss couldn’t care less. It was simply the language of credits that spoke clearly to the boss. Spoils which constituted bottles of mead or spotchka would be next to ideal. 

—and not this tiny child, helplessly flailing, its limbs shaking with each cry which piteously sliced through the oily night air. 

The billowing smoke which curled from the fires was thick. Soon, a syrupy fog blanketed the merrymakers. 

“Feed that brat some mead, get it drunk a little,” spat one of the Quarren through a squared jaw. His tentacles squirmed distastefully with every quaking shriek the baby made. “If you insist on keeping that tiny piece of filth, at least keep the damn thing quiet!”

The Trandoshan with the child hissed again, but with more reluctance. He gingerly rocked the infant, almost reconsidering either of the two suggestions. The baby’s cry, however, grew weaker and weaker. It was not faring well in this polluted pit which the thugs had dug for themselves.

The Devaronian’s robust growl rose above the din. “Not sure about you, but I’ve had enough of that kriffin’ Dray goat! We had nothing but their bones for the past week. Now that—“ the monster of a horned man pointed at the unfortunate child in the Trandoshan’s grasp with a knife already unsheathed, “—is a little something different for a change, huh? The boss doesn’t have to know we even had a human child.” The massive creature pinned the cornered “nursemaid” in place with his glare. “Give that up, now, Atur. There won’t be much left of it after we’re done. Even the bones would be tender…”

Scattered laughter wove through eager, raspy throats. Even the Quarren were starting to chime in for the sport of it all. Not one among their motley crew were fond of humans. 

Atur, the Trandoshan who had wanted to keep the child to curry favor from the boss was losing his resolve quickly. The Devaronian slowly got up from his corner with a menacing stride. 

“Here—HERE!” gurgled Atur, defeated. With a choke, he raised the child for his crew to take. The infant mewled weakly but had still life burning in him. “Just don’t hurt m—“

What came next from the depths of further darkness among the mounting, rustling foliage surrounding the raider campfire were flashes of movement—perhaps even quicker than lightning.

A high, whistling sound of an energy weapon igniting filled the twilight, breaking through the fray. A shape flitted from out of nowhere and stormed in between Atur and the rest of the camp—

The fires blew flat for a second as though from a harsh, quick wind—then the flames were completely extinguished by an unseen culprit.

There were a series of muttered curses from the Quarren and a huff from the Devaronian, mildly inconvenienced yet half-alert; there were growls and grumbles from the Trandoshans, but what stood out most of all was the howling cry of pain from none other than Atur himself.

“MY ARM!!!” he moaned, holding up nothing but a fresh stump where the limb which held the infant once was not a second ago. “S-something cut my arm!!!” He fumbled and panicked, and Atur’s pronouncement of their camp being ambushed by an unknown attacker sent everyone into a mass of chaos. 

In the dark, the clanking of blasters and any form of weapon these thugs could get their hands on filled the pale void. 

Suddenly, there was only silence. Not even the wind swayed the tops of trees. The dead fires still emitted a carpet of smoke which threatened to swallow them whole, and only served as a screen to hide their attackers… if there were indeed more than one.

Who tracked them here? The villagers were too cowardly, too malleable with their hopelessness. The infant’s parents had helplessly watched their son get spirited away. These ruffians could still recall the faces of the mother and father, bloodied and dumbfounded, shaken and shocked. The Devaronian had even forgone the pleasure of slaughtering them. It was just too easy and there was no thrill in that…

But the thrill had turned into terror.

“WHO’S THERE?!” roared the Devaronian impatiently. He brandished his blade and on his hip, he had readied a blaster. 

A rustle came from behind.

Everyone fired at that general direction, but the momentary blinks of illumination only showed them that there was no one there… or whoever was there had quickly moved to another position…

The attackers could be anywhere, everywhere.

And their assailants seemed to be taunting them.

Even Atur had fallen quiet in his throes of agony. His breath hitched in the dark, trembling. 

They had tried in vain to listen to the baby’s cry… but whoever had taken the child along with Atur’s dismembered limb had found a way to keep it from uttering a sound.

Did the child perish along with the attack? 

A small child’s gurgle came from yet another direction. 

“There!!!” yelled a Quarren, and more fired at that new target area, while others held back; they used the flashes of light lent by the fiery bolts to see their way around as they scattered and circled their now ruined camp. 

They could definitely hear the infant once again. Its coo and gurgle sounded—to their disbelief—calm, unthreatened. The sound came from everywhere when no eyes could pinpoint the source.

Whoever their assailants were—they were playing mind tricks on them. There was no explanation. Each ruffian began to shake in both desperation and fury. This was not a good look at all. They were unwittingly at the mercy of an unseen foe!

This defiant and rare event of being caught unawares was gaining on their sensibilities. They were starting to hear voices…

Two or three?

Or just one voice… and it was a young voice of one no older than a child himself.

“Stay here,” said the disembodied young voice gently, soothingly; it was then followed by a small gurgle of what sounded like assent. They were surely losing their minds. Was a mere infant holding conversation with an older child’s ghost? The voice was clipped; its tone was seemingly filtered by a modulator.

“I’ll be back for you,” said the young, coherent voice—and then, once more, the sound of an igniting energy weapon… a lightsaber? The Devaronian had heard of it before… the boss had kept a trophy. But no. Not a lightsaber. It was higher pitched. It warbled, like an electronic, musical insect… mesmerizing like a song…

A thin blade of non-light streaked through the darkness. The warbling turned into a moan and a shriek—then three of the Quarren fell, their bodies thudding loudly on the rocky ground…

“Dank farrik!!!” yowled the Trandoshans as three tentacled heads rolled close their feet. 

They fired their blasters indiscriminately. One Trandoshan cried out, then fell lifeless, slaughtered by friendly fire.

It was Atur. The creature’s sightless eyes dimmed and the light in them was gone.

The Devaronian had tried to be resourceful. He used rock and metal from his blade as flint and steel, and with brisk and mighty friction caused a flame that lit the clearing. 

That was when they beheld their culprits—

—or rather, culprit.

It was a lone figure who stood atop a rocky mound, crouched and mind-bogglingly relaxed. Its form was slight and lithe, and not very tall—was it human? They couldn’t tell. It had a helmet on with a signature T-shaped visor…

“A Mandalorian!” sputtered the remaining Quarrens in shock. “How—?!“

Before they could add more words to their statements, the rest of the squid-like species dropped to the ground, two simultaneous blobs smacking sickeningly upon the loam. 

Three Trandoshans and one Devaronian were left standing. Abruptly, the spoils of their raids no longer mattered. Their lives were flashing before their eyes. There was more regret of not being able to do more dastardly deeds before they had their fill, than the regret of committing any of them at all.

The Devaronian blew forth another flame until it was a torch in his hold. The monster of a man threw the torch upon a pile of withered twigs, which set ablaze at once.

This seemed to distract the lone Mandalorian a little. Its gaze flitted to the spot where he had left the infant. The Mandalorian seemed male by the shape of its body and how the armor fit him. Yet… the armor on this particular iron-clad warrior was lacking. His vambraces were functional but not durable. The parts fastened upon him were his pauldrons and one chest piece; only an arm guard and a leg guard opposite of either sides shielded his lower body.

The rest of him were exposed with only the heavy fabric of his flight suit to cushion blows and blaster bolts.

The distraction was enough to send the Trandoshans to take better aim. They fired once more—

“Ha!!” one of them cackled as a bolt successfully hit the Mandalorian close to the neck, sending out a fountain of sparks. The voice behind the helm gasped and yelped—but more in surprise than in pain. 

The Trandoshans stared on, unbelieving, and the Devaronian let out a howl of frustration. They were firing madly at a single target and yet there was not a graze upon the rest of the Mandalorian. 

Beskar! was the unsaid word… precious and deadly. This warrior was indeed Mandalorian who knew how to utilize his armor.

The warrior then held his dark energy blade high, and they knew that it was that weapon which also deflected the shots.

The Mandalorian was young. They couldn’t see his face, but there was a youthfulness to his movements, to his motions, to his very drive. He had the impulsiveness of a child yet the calculatedness of an eager learner, still on their way of mastering a difficult craft. 

The Mandalorian’s heavy breathing had permeated the gloom. This gave the remaining thugs some leverage of assumption—the Mandalorian was indeed but a child, and perhaps losing heart and was becoming scared. 

“Most of you were bite but all we have left now is a bit of bark, eh?” challenged a Trandoshan to the young Mandalorian. The fires had grown bigger; the smoke coiling through the haze was dark and suffocating. That damn Devaronian had slowly transformed the forest into an inferno in a season where drought had barely ended—!

The Mandalorian muttered something brief; these warriors at the brink of extinction had a language of their own. While the Mandalorians were widely known to have spoken Basic, they still used their native tongue from time to time. It made little sense to use a language which one’s opponent didn’t understand, but it appeared to provide the little warrior some ballast.

The dark blade emitted a vindictive howl. 

This time, the Mandalorian struggled. The youth swung the blade with as much skill as he can muster, but whatever mettle which he had possessed in complete darkness had dwindled. In the growing fire, in the smoke, with the worry that the infant could be choking from the ashen plumes, his focus was broken apart. The energy weapon seemed to be picking up on the boy’s distress, and he began to falter in his steps.

The Trandoshans kept firing; the Devaronian fell into blows as the young Mandalorian reattempted to deflect the bolts and swerve out of harm’s way. The massive creature of a man managed to strike the boy at his side, and the Mandalorian toppled a little in mid-attack—

The Devaronian felt a relentless chill overtake him… and he roared his last breath as his horned head fell off his shoulders.

The frantic and visibly frightened Trandoshans emptied their blaster bolts at the Mandalorian as they saw their last stalwart ally fall. 

They fired in successive bursts without pause, and the incessant sound of blasts made ghastly music with the now-growing crackling blaze which, to their surprise and detriment, had swallowed them whole. Their scaly hides and their hollow cries all ceased to be, and the patch of forest had gone down with them… *

The village’s survivors witnessed the fires from afar grow enormous until the night sky was filled with the cursory brightness of daylight. 

To their gratitude, the dry spells were finally over. A quick and harsh rain had begun to sweep the flames away. The brief monsoon had to happen on this fateful night when a hellish blaze could’ve wiped out their already weakened shanty town. 

Out of forty villagers, only seventeen were spared. They were still maimed by grief and had only started burying their dead when the fire broke and the rains fell… followed by the sound of a gurgling child slowly approaching their fallen homesteads.

The muted yet frenetic tinkle of sheets of rain upon metal accompanied the babbling of an infant. It was the sound of water hitting helmet.

A shadowed figure loomed closer to the village and everyone dropped their work as a couple covered in soot and untended wounds dropped to their knees.

“Our baby—“ a young human woman uttered a choked whisper. She clung to a young man—her husband. 

A Mandalorian came into full view and stopped short in front of the baby’s parents.  

There should have been more fear and desolation stirring in the villagers’ souls upon the sight of a legendary warrior in the flesh, but everyone was tired, too tired. If the Mandalorian came to finish off the rest of them, they no longer had the strength to draw the meekest of arms.

But the Mandalorian made no move of aggression. The blankness of the young warrior’s visor stared at the couple for a moment, and a warm understanding slowly bloomed between them.

The Mandalorian wordlessly held the cradled child out; he had made certain that the child was carefully settled within his mother’s arms, whose body quaked so terribly that for a moment the young warrior thought the woman would drop her own baby. 

The child’s young father held his family close; he stood agape at the stranger who came upon them like a specter with their infant son in tow, swaddled with care and seemingly content despite the horrors the child may have encountered only minutes before.

“Th-thank you,” mouthed the baby’s father. The young man was weak from the strain of survival and the abrupt surge of hope that no sound emerged.

The Mandalorian nodded once, but decided to say something which took the couple aback.

“They won’t bother you anymore.”

The young warrior limped into the shadows from whence he appeared, and the rain came down in torrents so that the armored figure disappeared amidst it. When the rain relented as quickly as it had poured in, the mysterious Mandalorian had already long left the vicinity. ***

“Where on the Manda’s good name were you, Ragnar?”

Axe Woves’ drawl of contained worry filled the dawn air as the man observed his young apprentice shuffle in his boots, the boy dragging his steps as he made his way to the Kom’rk-class starfighter. It was the craft assigned to the mentor-student duo as they made their supply trips for their ever-continuous efforts to rebuild Mandalore.

The older Mandalorian held his patience long enough as Ragnar made no effort to reply.

Axe, to his ongoing frustration, couldn’t force cooperation from the boy. Ragnar’s moments of stubbornness were growing few and far in between, to be quite frank and fair. It took Axe painstaking attempts to get this lanky fifteen-year-old to diligently take his lead and fulfill his lessons in Mandalorian apprenticeship as best as he could.

And yet, how could he blame the boy?

He knew with all his heart that Ragnar would rather be by his father’s side. 

Two years—two years of the boy tolerating someone not of his father’s Tribe as his teacher, and yet Axe had willingly taken the responsibility when it was first presented to him by both Lady Kryze and the Armorer. 

The next option could have been Din Djarin, but the silver-clad Mandalorian had already an apprentice of his own through Grogu. The man’s little green son was quite the handful.

“Vizsla seemed to have entrusted you with our lives when he covered your exit to fetch reinforcements, Axe,” Bo-Katan had weighed in; even then, her eyes were unfocused and she sounded unsure. The only conviction left in her was bolstered when the Armorer confirmed that it was within Paz’s bull-headed nature to make peace with adversaries when the need was dire. Paz was the last warrior Axe has had a scuffle with. The hulking Mandalorian had since made sincere amends by the time they had accidentally discovered the Imperial base disgustingly embedded in the underbelly of their homeworld.

And Ragnar—the poor child; he was ready to jump into the hands of wherever fate took him, after Mandalorian scouts had discovered Paz in the state he was in. It was a grueling ordeal. 

For the first year, Ragnar was passive yet unyielding. He was silent and secretive but spoke when Axe merited an answer. Two forces warred incessantly within the child in the absence of his father. Ragnar had become both cold and compliant, obedient yet distant.

Now, as Axe’s gaze landed on Ragnar and his more awkward-than-usual strides, the man studied the boy. The child walked in a stoop, probably exhausted and visibly soaked to his underclothes. In these two years of mentoring the youth, Axe could ably enough read Ragnar’s expressions behind the helmet as well as his body language. 

“I have the water,” Ragnar’s reply came right before Axe decided to demand an answer. “Three villages didn’t have it but the fourth one did.”

The youth’s visor tilted to face him as he hefted two large containers filled with sloshing liquid with one hand. 

Axe smiled in spite of himself; the man had his own helmet on so Ragnar didn’t see it. It would otherwise take great effort to hoist the containers up as high as the boy did had Ragnar not been industrious with his strength training.

That did not explain, however, the child’s seemingly wounded gait. Axe frowned again.

“Are you all right, verd’ika?”

Ragnar’s visor stilled at his direction for a long minute, as though registering the query.

The boy nodded in silence; he said no more.

Axe sighed heavily. He couldn’t bear sensing the phantom grip of dormant rage taking hold of his charge. Ragnar was adamant with his choice of color when he repainted parts of his armor symbolically acquired from previous missions under his guidance. The boy wore the Vizsla crest faithfully on his chest piece, the only beskar plate of protection which covered his vulnerable upper body. Ragnar chose the left piece first, the part which covered his heart. The Vizsla crest was then emblazoned over it, a fitting place for such a significant signet.

The boy’s pauldrons had red stripes adorning both sides. Red, the color which symbolized honoring a parent. He kept the blue hues of his helmet; blue, the color of reliability, and the colors which Paz had decided Clan Vizsla should proudly carry from thereon.

The rosy glow of sunrise soon cocooned the skies of this moon where they had decided to make a pit stop for their fresh water supply. Under that gold and magenta light, Ragnar looked a tad more presentable. 

Axe’s brow creased.

“Ragnar—is that blaster burn on your flight suit?”

“NO.”

Axe flinched at Ragnar’s instant retort. It was defensive. It was most likely a lie, but Axe knew better than to interrogate the boy when he was clearly in need of nourishment and proper sleep. 

Once more, Axe sighed. How does one manage the capricious nature of an adolescent without being too heavy-handed? That was the trouble and the danger of mentoring an apprentice that wasn’t your own child. 

Axe couldn’t treat Ragnar as his own—a far cry from it. 

Not while Paz Vizsla was still…

“I’m ready to leave now,” Ragnar said abruptly, cutting through Axe’s somber train of thought. After a short while, the boy added respectfully, “Sir.”

“All right, then,” Axe acknowledged. He made a motion for Ragnar to board the Kom’rk and settle himself properly. “Get some breakfast and rest. We’ll head to the next system before returning to Mandalore. I need you to be in tip-top shape.”

“Yes, sir.”

The child was being obedient and distant, one too many times. Axe could reach Ragnar but only if the boy willed it. There will always be a wall between him and his apprentice, but Axe had to make the most of it. Ragnar was learning, after all, in spite of everything. In fact, the boy was a little ahead than the rest of apprentices his stage and age. There was determination in Ragnar that came in focused, rapid bursts—a sprint more often than a marathon.

Axe didn’t accost the child further when Ragnar decided to isolate himself in his personal bunk again. Lessons can wait for now. 

When the older Mandalorian took the Kom’rk to orbit and jumped to hyperspace, his only co-pilot were the sounds of water swirling in two full containers close to the spot where Ragnar usually sat.

“This is the Way,” Axe mumbled, a little bitterly and a little sadly, recalling the Tribe and their ancient, outdated practices. ***

A small, relieved sob escaped Ragnar as the boy kicked off his boots and crawled under the blankets of his bedding. Thankfully, Axe had allowed him his own quarters in the already cramped Kom’rk living areas. 

Ragnar had tried not to feel guilty over keeping a million secrets from the man who had whole-heartedly decided to become his teacher, despite Ragnar’s own unvoiced misgivings at first. 

He knew that Axe respected his father, and that was all—hell, that was everything—that mattered to the boy. 

Would Axe still respect him, his apprentice, Ragnar thought, should his teacher find out that he had discovered the ruined remains of the Darksaber discarded like a useless trinket among the charred husks of super commando clone armor… and through long days and nights of clandestine research, he had perseveringly pieced Clan Vizsla’s symbolic weapon together? Through long days and nights as he figured out the ancient weapon from the limited instances Lady Kryze wielded it before it was crushed in a duel with the enemy?

The hilt was not the same, but the crystal was there. It did take soul-draining convincing from him towards the Armorer. 

She was the only other authority Ragnar truly revered apart from his father. He couldn’t lie to her… and yet he had managed to persuade her to provide him materials for a new hilt. She had never found out what it was for. Oh, those were months of daring and scheming. Ragnar nearly loved the Armorer as he wholly loved Paz Vizsla. And Ragnar knew that the Armorer loved him with a fierce, wounded love of a beloved clan elder. 

It had hurt to hide things from her… but Ragnar needed his secrets. His very resolve thrived through those secrets. Ragnar had his own world, his own reality that he shared with no one…

…No one except his father.

Ragnar fished out a tiny comlink device soon after he had tucked the Darksaber back into a hidden sheath clipped on his belt flap. 

The boy took deep, nurturing breaths to relax his mind. His body still trembled from the effort he needed to hold his own from the encounter with a band of ruffians, and saving a tiny baby the night before. After he had restored the infant to his parents, Ragnar fled to cry himself to sleep in an even more deserted corner of the woods.

In gratitude, Ragnar thought how his helmet continued to conceal everything: his eyes swollen from a night of weeping, the profound tiredness in his eyes, the lies he kept in his gaze.

The Armorer had said that anyone from the Tribe was free to release themselves from their vow… they were free from the Creed of the helmet since their return to Mandalore, but even then, it was voluntary. It somehow pleased Ragnar that only a few among the Tribe had decided to take advantage of a revised verse in the Creed, despite it based on ancient song. Most of them, like himself, chose to keep the helmet on for various reasons. The Armorer herself kept her own buy’ce on.

“I will never take my helmet off,” Ragnar had promised himself, “as long as my father sleeps.”

Another deep breath; Ragnar had pressed the comms button which transmitted his heartfelt message to a beloved person parsecs away. 

“Dad,” Ragnar breathed into the tiny device. His voice seemed ephemeral but the hope he held in his quaking body held fast. 

Ragnar told Paz through the comms about his night in the forest. 

“You would’ve been proud,” the boy continued. A fresh deluge of tears fell from his cheeks. It was always like this, when he spoke to his father.  His teenage voice cracked as he spoke into the comms.

“I panicked, Dad,” Ragnar confessed. “What if the baby’s parents were dead? I’d have to tell Axe what happened. I’ll be tanned for sure.” The boy chuckled amidst his quiet weeping. “I thought to myself, that baby would be a foundling. Would he be my foundling since I rescued him, Dad? I don’t think you’re ready to be a grandpa yet. Besides, I’m only fifteen. You’ll tan my hide after Axe does.”

Ragnar’s laughter that broke through his sorrow felt more genuine somehow. 

“I’m fifteen now, Dad. Would you believe it? It’s been over two years since my verd’goten. Don’t worry, there’s no girls in the picture yet. I promise I’ll finish my apprenticeship even before I think about girls.”

Ragnar laughed again. He was feeling less alone.

“I love you so much, Dad. I’ll see you soon.”

He always ended his comms with those words, without fail. 

Ragnar set the comlink down, his hand falling like deadweight at his side. The boy forced himself not to feel empty once again. He closed his eyes tight and let his thoughts float further out, and felt the world alive around him in spite being in the middle of space travel. He could feel Axe’s sadness as the man piloted the ship alone in the cockpit, from where Ragnar sat in the semi-darkness of his bunk. 

The child kept his eyes closed.

I love you so much, Dad. I’ll see you soon.

The first statement had always rang true. Ragnar knew no greater truth and it even rivaled the Creed he swore on his thirteenth birthday, and had re-sworn months after before Mandalore’s Living Waters. 

The second statement, however…

Dad, Ragnar added in his thoughts. Will you see me soon?

The boy had drifted off to sleep with tears still in his eyes, underneath an unshed helmet. ***

The Armorer knew that Ragnar had contacted Paz again, but she dared not pry on what son had to say to his father.

Each member of the Tribe always had their own secrets, and she let them keep those secrets if it meant that they kept her trust as much as they kept to the Creed. 

Ragnar was no different, and yet she realized the child’s own special case.

She saw the many lights blinking in meaningful rhythm—green for the active comms close to Paz’s ear, a voice which only the man can hear, and yellow all over the bacta tank which the Armorer beheld. She keenly observed the medics going through their routine of checking on the patient within, who was locked in deepest slumber.

She fought tears in her eyes as Paz Vizsla’s once-immense and intimidating form was but one that had diminished: frail-looking and defenseless, suspended in a pod of healing liquid which merely prolonged his life in a comatose state.

Paz’s vitals remained stable—his heartbeat, his breathing, even his bodily functions of a system which had not taken food but simple, basic nourishment to keep the organs from failing completely. 

It was torture, seeing him like this, day in and day out for two years.

Two years. The Armorer marveled at how their people remained steadfast and kept rebuilding after two years, in the heated whispers over another growing enemy in the shadows.

In this moment, let that be Lady Bo-Katan’s concern. Now, the Armorer had this sacred hour of tending to Paz through the medics, who faithfully kept the man who was quite like a son to her alive and well… in a manner of speaking.

At the conclusion of the battle, the Mandalorian scouts immediately sent to scour the aftermath had found Paz propped against a wall, surely dead… yet there he had been, barely alive and breathing in ragged, pained gasps. 

Din Djarin had informed her that Grogu found him first, as animatedly narrated by the toddler in his amusing process of speech. Djarin’s son had tried his best to heal the hulk of a warrior… but as the little green child had discovered, as long as the patient was unconscious, he had no full consent; therefore Paz’s own will to live was the only factor which had met the child’s healing powers halfway. Grogu did what he could… the rest would be up to Paz. This was the state which Paz’s spirit, Grogu had tried to express, had insofar allowed. What a wonder of nature Grogu remained for anyone who encountered the child.

Paz’s body took a fatal beating, and yet the man lived and continued to do so before her eyes. The Armorer hadn’t ceased thanking the Manda for long periods afterward when she had been informed that there were bacta tanks ready for use—equipment, apparently, left by the Remnant for their own benefit. 

Since Moff Gideon was deemed to be no more, anything useful that they could salvage from the wreck was considered treasure. Three fully functional bacta tanks were among the goods which would otherwise be a medical luxury across a war-torn Outer Rim.

They were able to heal a few more through the two tanks otherwise unoccupied by her most faithful warrior. There were those who still perished in the intense battle to reclaim Mandalore—Paz truly was one of the luckier ones.

But how cruel, the Armorer thought in silent despair… how cruel fate was that while Paz lived, he was not truly living. While his heart beat, did it continue to love with its fiery, customary passion the son and a Creed he had sworn lifelong allegiance to? 

Comatose… two years, two improbable years…

The Armorer heaved a melancholy sigh. 

The medics had told her and so she relayed to Ragnar that while his father was in a deep sleep, there were parts of his brain that remained active. In Ragnar’s heart, his father listened, even in this deepest slumber. They had scanned Paz’s brain, had checked his neural reactions as well as his muscular ones. Both were continually stimulated by regulated pulses of energy to stave off atrophy. 

The respirator mask measured his breaths; the rhythm remained effortless and even. A specialized helmet still covered Paz’s face, fully respectful of the man’s will in not breaking the Creed, even as the Armorer had made the vows more lenient in the light of their return to Mandalore.

Paz was not brain-dead. With that fact, Ragnar sought hope. The Armorer sought hope and unspeakable comfort in it was well…

“Yet you continue to dream, ner ad’ika.” In her most vulnerable moments, the Armorer had allowed herself to call Paz her child. It was what Paz’s own mother would have wanted before her demise when Paz was but a small child himself, and Lady Vizsla had sent her son under the care of a goran—a blacksmith.

“Dream well, then,” the Armorer whispered. “Listen to the voice of your son. Ragnar always calls to you, even when the comlink does not transmit. Listen to my voice as well, beloved warrior. Come back to us when you are ready.”

In the meantime, the Armorer repeated in her heart, numbering the countless stars as she wished Paz’s own heart would beat many times over—

Dream well.

*****

Mando'a chapter glossary: *verd’ika - little soldier *buy’ce - helmet *verd’goten - Mandalorian coming-of-age ritual usually done at thirteen years old *Manda - the Mandalorian Oversoul similar to the afterlife *ner ad’ika - my child

Link to "A Child of the Watch" series/collection - AO3

Link to next chapter - AO3 || Tumblr

[ragnarssons]

so i gotta say, din’s speech to bo-katan, to me, made me understand his move at the end of episode 6 and why it happened on episode 6. din didn’t believe the darksaber held any power, he still doesn’t. and while on episode 2 when she supposedly “owned it” by saving din, she hadn’t proved to din that she would want and could be capable of uniting their people and reclaim mandalore, after all of s3′s journey, she has. she’s proved to din, more than that, that on top of everything, she’s also learnt to accept “the zealots” she’s been snickering about ever since he’s met her. all the “delusionals” who believe “in children’s stories” and are composed of “non true mandalorians” (according to some like axe woves for example). she’s proved that she can be a leader and profide shelter for his people (the children of the watch) just like all the other mandalorians. that she’s protected, helped them, and that she will continue to do so later down the line, if and when she becomes the ruler of mandalore. so it’s only when din got time to know bo katan and see who she was as a person and potential leader that he saw all the qualities he’s cited in his speech, within her: loyalty, honor, duty, leadership. and that’s why it was so easy for him to trust her with the burden of carrying the symbols of leading mandalore. and that’s, again, coming from someone who doesn’t believe in these symbols: to din, he only gave her a tool to bring together people with different beliefs. to me, it tie in beautifully with episode 2 particularly, where they talked quite a lot about their own beliefs and faiths. and then it shines a light on what is actually din’s journey this season. to me, to read a full-fledged story to din on s3, we have to include his book of boba fett episodes. the writers and producers said time and time again that din’s journey on s3 is about identity. if we start “s3″ with episode 5 of tbobf, din has no identity anymore. he’s back at being the anonymous bounty hunter travelling the galaxy, AND on top of that, he’s shunned from his covert, thus, truly alone. so he seeks belonging in what had become his drive for so long, which was grogu. he circles back to grogu, after what is apparently years apart: fights his way through the galaxy to find grogu again, but there, ahsoka asks the important questions: is din doing it for himself, or for grogu? what din hadn’t imagined is that grogu was just as confused and lost as him, without him. so din leaves, finds a new purpose in what will actually be his driving force on s3 as well: fighting for what he believes in. it’s an extension of his love for grogu. din spent two seasons fighting the empire for the child he’s learnt to see as his own. for this “him and i” philosophy of protecting that only being in the galaxy that he’s allowed himself to truly love. but then he doesn’t have grogu anymore, so he extends this urge to fight, to the people he believes in. starting with boba fett and fennec shand: let’s all remember how din not only refused the bounty boba fett was offering him, but he was also willing to fight to the death when it seemed like the fight was going in this direction. but grogu comes back, and becomes yet again, din’s driving force. would have din gone to the living waters without grogu? i believe so, because he wanted to attone before grogu came back. but then coming back to the covert also becomes protection for grogu, and allowing him to live among a people. so din decides to fight for that, and if bo-katan has to be the champion to do so, he’ll follow what his creed believes. but then bo-katan reveals herself, to him, as “worthy” of his devotion and everyone’s devotion (ie, the mandalorians on mandalore, that’s why his speech uses the words “lady kryze” just like the “wandering” mandalorians did). so yeah, din’s identity isn’t one of a leader, it’s one of a fighter, of a knight - kinda like grogu on episode 6 nudge nudge, i feel like that move from the writers wasn’t just shallow fun lizzo knighting grogu, but actually mirroring grogu’s shapes of personalities to his actual role model, yknow, HIS chosen FATHER - and that’s been his identity through the whole of s3. now, the question is, how s4 is gonna challenge that, or cement it. will din be pushed towards evolution? because as he pledges himself to bo-katan, it does seem that were he to choose, he’d do that “until her song is written”, soooo fooor a looooong time. but again, as stated by a lot of people, rightfully i think in some parts, din has to become again the driving force of the story, and not bo-katan anymore. while s3 can easily justify this shift of focus, the show can’t shift that tone for the rest of its course, at least, not if the writers don’t want to drastically change the tone of their show, and disappoint a big chunk of the audience (and no, before anyone comes at me with the “but the producers said it’s not about din anymoooore”... again, no, that’s not what they said, please read more than click-baity headlines and actually read what the producers say). so somehow, the end of s3 has to bring din back on the front line, and i feel like that’s why the narrative made gideon take him in particular.

[chadillacboseman]

Blowing Off Steam, PT III

PART I, PART II

Pairing: Axe Woves x GN!Reader (previous installments have been F!Reader)

Warnings: This one...kinda got away from me. NO Smut?! Actually a little fluffy. Some violence. Mentions of alcohol use. 

Word Count: Like 2.5k

Author Note: AXE SIMP HOURS ARE ON. IS OUR DEAR READER FALLING FOR THE BIG BLUE IDIOT? TUNE IN TO FIND OUT!

Your eyes open with a flutter, and it takes a moment for them to adjust enough to remember where you are. With a jolt, you realize you aren’t alone in the bed, and then it all comes back to you- again you had succumbed to the charm of the Mandalorian. But this time was different. This time, he had asked you to stay, and like a fool you had done it. Axe was still fast asleep next to you, his bare chest rising and falling slowly with each breath.

Sunlight filtered in through the observation window, high enough to indicate that you had slept much longer than you should have. Careful not to disturb the slumbering Mandalorian, you rose from the bed and fumbled for your clothes on the floor. You shrugged on your shirt and began searching for your boots, feeling a headache forming from last night’s alcohol and the bright sunlight.

“Leaving me already?” Axe’s voice makes you jump, and you spin on your heel to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with an eyebrow cocked. Your face grows warm as he watches you, awaiting an answer, “No…” you pause, trying to avoid his eyes, “just getting dressed.” He chuckles and rises from the bed, moving to find his own clothes on the floor.

“Thank you...for letting me stay the night,” you try not to look at him as you speak, knowing that your embarrassment will shine like a beacon if your eyes meet his. “It would have been a little rude to let you trek back to the city in the middle of the night while you were drunk,” your head snaps up at this response. “I wasn't drunk!” you cry, exasperated. Axe laughs and mimics staggering, his face contorted in a cross-eyed expression. You shove him and he stumbles back a step, his face still split in a boyish grin. “I was not drunk, Woves,” you snap, still glaring at him. “Well, that’s a relief. I was starting to think you had to be off your ass to sleep with me.” You huff, but can’t for the life of you find the words to retort.

It’s hard to keep your eyes off of the Mandalorian as he dresses- the way his arms flex as he pulls his undershirt over his head nearly puts you in a trance. “I’d ask if you see something you like, but I think I already know the answer to that,” his voice snaps you out of your entranced gaze and you feel your face grow warm again. “At least let me walk you back to your place,” the cockiness is gone from his voice now, replaced by something else that you can’t quite place. “Will you let me do that?” You consider him for a moment before sighing and conceding.

--

You feel safe next to Axe as he walks with you back into the city; his armor alone makes anyone you meet give the two of you a wide berth. It suddenly occurs to you that you likely look like a bounty he’s escorting, which, when you consider it, is favorable to the alternative of them knowing that you are essentially on a walk of shame.

Your place isn’t much- a small apartment in a single level building in the heart of the city. The building is home primarily to transient dock workers and a few permanent transplants like yourself. You silently thank the maker that none of your neighbors are outside when you arrive at your door. You fumble to find your key chip in your pockets and hold it to the reader before pushing the door open. You stand in the doorway and turn to face Axe, unsure of how to thank him. He simply tilts his helmet in a nod and you hear a slight chuckle filter through his vocoder, “See you around.”

--

A hot shower and clean clothes have never felt so good, of that you are certain. You have never been so thankful for a few days off of work- a great opportunity to sleep off your hangover and recover in peace. As you lie in your bed, it’s difficult to keep Axe off of your mind. The ease with which you think of him annoys you; you sleep with a guy twice and suddenly he’s all you can think about? You scoff aloud to no one, but nagging thoughts of the Mandalorian continue to persist in the back of your mind, even as you drift into a midday nap.

When you wake, the sun is setting and stray rays of orange light filter in through the shuttered windows in your bedroom. You rise slowly and stretch, savoring the gentle pull on your sore muscles. You feel your stomach growl, and remember with a groan that you have yet to visit the market and restock your groceries this week. Not one to deny your stomach its needs, you throw on your jacket and head out to the inn, hoping for a hot bowl of stew. As you exit, you retrieve your blaster from the drawer by the door and quickly holster it in your belt. If there was one thing your transplant life had taught you, it was to always be prepared.

The streets are quiet, which is unusual for Trask, even at night. When you round the corner to the port, you realize why- an Imperial cruiser is docked and the street is flanked by storm troopers. You feel your heart leap into your throat as you duck behind a stack of shipping crates, cursing yourself for ever leaving your apartment. There is a commotion inside the inn before an officer exits; behind him, two troopers are pushing civilians out at gunpoint, and shove them to their knees on the street.

Your hand finds your blaster as you scan to quickly count the troopers outside the inn. Twenty-five, not counting the officer or the two pointing guns at the civilians. You recognize one of the civilians- the human bartender you so often bantered with. The other is a mon calamari you haven’t seen before. The officer is speaking, but you can’t make out what he is saying. The mon calamari responds, and a trooper strikes him in the face with his blaster, sending him crumpling to the ground.

There was no way you could take them on yourself- you wouldn’t have a tauntaun’s chance on Tatooine against all of those Imps. The human bartender was speaking now, and your heart sank when you heard the word “Mandalorian”. You swore silently and retreated into the dark alley behind you. Clearly these troopers were here in response to the freighter they’d lost, and Axe Woves was going to be their top target.

Once you are out of earshot you break into a sprint, headed for the city gate. When the trooper’s arm catches you in the chest it practically knocks the wind out of you. You fall to the concrete, gasping, as the white armor comes into your view. You make a reach for your blaster and feel a boot come down, hard, on the top of your hand. You let out a yelp of pain and try to pull your hand away as the trooper reaches down to pull the blaster from your belt. You hear the crackle of a comm unit, and the trooper speaks, “I’ve got a runner down the west alleyway. Armed with a blaster.” The voice, likely that of the officer, crackles back, “Bring them here.”

You feel a hand on the back of your jacket that wrenches you to your feet, and the cold metal of a blaster presses into the small of your back. “Get moving” the trooper spits, jabbing the blaster, hard, into your skin. Predictably, he brings you to the street in front of the inn, and shoves you to your knees beside the mon calamari, who is back upright, but bleeding profusely from a cut above his eye. The officer approaches you- his suit is covered in Imp badges and medals, no doubt a testament to his ruthlessness.

“Is this the one you told me about?” he’s asking the human, who quickly glances at you, then nods. You make a note to never trust another bartender again. The officer turns his attention to you, “Where is the Mandalorian?” You make up your mind right then and there- this man is getting nothing from you. You shrug, trying to keep your face neutral. The butt of the blaster catches you off guard as it strikes your face. Searing pain rockets through your skull and you crash to the pavement, unable to catch yourself. “I will ask you again,” the officer is on one knee next to you, “Where is the Mandalorian?”

“Right here, hu’tuun.” The officer jerks to his feet and turns. Your vision swims slightly, but there’s no mistaking the blue armor- Axe Woves is standing in the street, once again flanked by his companions. You clench your eyes shut as blaster fire rains down around you, and you feel bodies hit the pavement nearby. There is a rushing sound, like a ship’s thruster, and you feel yourself being lifted from the ground, an armored arm wrapped around you. You glance up to find yourself staring into Axe’s visor, and you can’t help but push yourself against him, despite the cold, hard beskar between you.

“Let’s get you out of here,” even the vocoder can’t hide the emotion in his voice. As he engages his jetpack, you glance back to see one of his companions put a blaster to the officer’s head. The other is entering the cruiser, and you smile knowing that the Imps have one less ship, and now, one less officer.

Axe lands rather gracefully outside your door; you expect him to set you on your feet, but he keeps you held tight to his chest. “Unlock the door,” you do so without argument, and he carries you over the threshold. Only once the door is sealed does he move to set you on your feet. Your legs shake, but you manage to stand upright, at least for now.

The Mandalorian removes his helmet with a quiet pneumatic hiss, and tosses it to the floor. You feel a little hysterical as you fumble your words to thank him, “Axe, thank you so much. If you hadn’t showed up when-” his mouth on yours cuts you off and takes you by surprise. It’s a desperate kiss, his stubble rough against your skin, and his gloved hand tangling in your hair. When he pulls away, his eyes don’t leave yours as he speaks, “How is your head?” he pulls one of his gloves off and gently touches the spot where the metal connected. “Killing me,” you reach your own hand to your face and feel dried blood beneath your fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Before you can argue, the Mandalorian lifts you off your feet and carries you to your bedroom, where he gently sets you on the bed.

He exits the room and you search your drawers for clean clothes, quickly pulling them on and tossing your bloodied garments in the hamper.

When Axe returns, he has a small towel and a bowl of water. He takes a seat next to you on the bed and dips the towel into the water, moving to gently wipe the blood from your face. You put your hand over his to still it, "You don't have to do this-" he brushes your hand aside and continues to mop the blood away. "And you didn't have to defy an imperial officer to try and protect me," your face heats at these words.

The two of you sit in silence as Axe cleans your face gently. When he finishes, he sets the bowl and towel aside and turns his attention back to you. You search his face, trying to decode his expression, but it's unreadable. It's a moment before he speaks, his voice is even, but brimming with emotion. "Mesh'la," his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip and his eyes bore into yours, "When you stayed with me last night, I wanted to tell you how I felt." He pauses, searching for the words, "I planned to find you again at the bar. To really get to know you." You can only stare at him, taking in his features- was he blushing?

You wanted to tell him that you felt the same- that he had been on your mind every moment you were apart- but the words just wouldn't come to you. Instead, you simply pulled him into a hug, ignoring the hard Beskar between you. You felt his arms wrap around you, and he sighed contentedly. For a few moments, there was just this- the two of you, embracing there on the bed. When you finally pulled away, the Mandalorian was smiling, and you couldn't help but return it.

"Rest, mesh'la," Axe's voice is gentle as he brushes the hair from your face, "tomorrow, I'll find you at the inn."

---

Tagging @calamity-queen @djxrxn and @lestrange2703

[world-of-socks]

Chapter 4: Destabilizing Two Stones With One Axe

Note: yup I actually felt like writing today. I’m holding off on writing White’s chapters cause 1 they are secondary to the main story 2 because... well I’m bad at writing her character. I’m willing to give it try, just not yet lol. Anyways I hope you enjoy Blue’s chapter. As always I got the idea from @steven-universe-au-prompts . I might need to make a master post for the links for all the chapters thus far. You’ll find that under the tag (frick what should I title this AU): each and every star fell to earth AU master post. (Did I come up with that name just now. Yup. Is it good, nope. Does it sound kinda cool, sure.)

Blue, Chryss, and the rest of the squadron spent the rest of the evening talking about their missions, performing strange human rituals, and laughing.

“Hey, Blue get over here!” Diopside laughed, “Wanna play this game with us?”

“Uhm, I don’t-... I’m not sure.” she stammered.

“Oh c’mon, we’ll teach you!” Citrine smiled.

Blue looked around shyly, her eyes fell on Chryss, she simply patted the spot on the floor next to her. She shuffled over to her and sat down, fiddling awkwardly with her hands.

“Ok so ‘ere’s what you do.” Aquamarine announced, “You take this little stone ‘ere, right? And you throw it into the other gem’s group of stones. The stones that leave this circle ‘ere are the amount of points you will receive. Then you just repeat the process until one gem is entirely out of their stones. And then you count the points!”

“So who do you wanna play against?” Diopside asked with an exuberance in her voice that Blue was not used to.

“I-... uh… I’ll play against the-... I mean-...Citrine.” she fumbled over her words, still deeply unsure of herself in this new culture. Was it even something she wanted?

The group all through teasing remarks at Citrine while she moved to her new spot in the circle of gems. The two set up their stones. Blue copied Citrine.

Citrine cracked her knuckles, “Prepare to be beaten newby.”

The gem looked up for a moment to notice the blue gem’s face, “I’ll go easy on you.”

It was Blue’s move first, she knocked a few stones to the side, none left the circle. Citrine was next, she hit three out of the circle. Blue frowned, she didn’t understand why this was seen as entertainment. Why would one find joy in simply throwing stones? It seemed quite barbaric in nature to her.

Blue obviously lost the game. She was inexperienced. The group laughed and teased Citrine claiming that Blue had simply Held back her true stone throwing powers in order to make you feel better. She was very confused.

“No I didn’t. I failed at the task. I was inefficient, if I had done more research beforehand I would’ve gained more points, but-” Blue was cut off.

“We were just messing with Citrine.” Chryss put a hand on her shoulder, “It’s just a silly game Blue, you don’t have to play anymore if you don’t want to.”

“I-... is that alright?” She asked, she truly didn’t want to play again.

“Of course!” Diopside replied, “You can just watch if that makes you happy.”

Blue nodded.

The squadron stayed up until the sun had risen; everyone laughing or smiling, just enjoying the fact that they were there. Blue didn’t do or say much, but she felt included, like she was a part of something.

“Oh stars!” Chryss noticed the orange-yellow glow that had soaked through the tent with a warm glow, “Peach is gonna kill us!”

“What else is new?” Citrine giggled, not noticing the sun.

Diopside got to her feet, “Citrine look!”

“What-” Citrine still laughed to herself, but when she saw the sun the giggling stopped, “I’m such a clod.”

“If we get in our cots now and pretend like we’ve been asleep this whole time, maybe Peach won’t tell the difference.” Aquamarine scrambled to her caught and closed her eyes, tight.

“What- what’s happening?” Blue felt lost again.

“Future vision, though.” Citirne warned, still in her cot anyway.

“... but sometimes she can’t predict accurately. We might be safe.” Diopside said from the safety of her cot.

“I’ll explain later, Blue. Just lay down on your cot.” Chryss was the only one to answer Blue’s desperate plea for an answer.

She quickly did as she was told, while she marvelled at how suddenly the mood had changed and how quickly her squadron mates had quieted themselves. She heard the birds singing, the winds rustling gently across the folds of the fabric tent. The sun was slowly beginning to warm her form again.

Suddenly, someone pushed back the folds of the entrance to the tent, she heard a sharp involuntary intake of breath from Citrine. She couldn’t see who had just walked into their room.

“Sit up, you clods. I’ve had a rough morning and I’m not in the mood for you to fool around with me. I didn’t need future vision to see that you all would disobey my strong suggestion and sleep tonight.” The voice was annoyed, but more tired than truly angry, Blue recognized the tone, “Well… it's your loss. We have a long day today, and you would have benefitted from sleep.”

The group quickly hopped out of bed and lined up at the front of the tent, saluting the general on their way out.

Each soldier said something along the lines of, “Yes, General Peach.” or “Sorry Miss sapphire.” on their way out of the tent.

Blue was stopped before she could follow her usual trail behind Chryss.

The sapphire summoned a clipboard from her gem and looked at it for a moment, “Blue Kyanite, correct?”

“Yes.” she nodded, she felt strangely frightened.

“Mmhm. Chryss recruited you, yes?” the general didn’t look up at her.

“Yes.” she replied again.

“Ok, so here’s the deal newby. Each morning I expect you all to be rested so that you can well-accomplish what I ask of you. Then I will instruct you in your training drills. You will train with your squadron and live with your squadron. You might have noticed that your squad is smaller than what you're used to. We are a small army, which means that I expect you to train hard and work hard for our cause. Both your squad and I will give you further instruction throughout the day, am I clear?” It seemed as though she had recited this speech many, many times.

“Yes.” she swallowed.

Peach held open the flap of fabric so that Blue could leave with the rest of her group. She was quite relieved to be out of Peach’s intense presence.

As the group trailed behind the other squadrons that were under Peach Sapphire’s command, they began to loosen up a bit again.

“What had her so annoyed?” Citrine pondered aloud.

“Maybe she got punched in the eye.” Aquamarine joked.

The group laughed a little.

“Seriously though guys,” Chryss attempted to reign the group back in, “She said that she had a ‘rough morning’, I wonder what happened…”

“Yeah…” Citrine trailed off.

Blue looked to Diopside who’s face had changed from startled, to pondering, to something more dangerous: plotting and mischievous. Blue had a feeling of what was coming next and gently shook her head, but Diopside didn’t see.

“Imma’ go ask her.” Diopside grinned with a glint in her eye.

“Uh, no. You aren’t.” Citrine grabbed her arm, but she wriggled away and was already dashing to where Peach was leading the group.

Citrine slapped her palm to her face; Chryss groaned. There was no stopping that gem.

“I mean… at least we might figure out what happened…” Aquamarine pointed out.

“Yeah, if she doesn’t end up in a bubble first.” Citrine replied.

Blue couldn’t tell if they were being serious or not. Would Diopside really be shattered for asking? That’s what would have happened in a normal court of gems, right? She had always gotten the impression that Rose’s army wasn’t normal.

As the group approached their destination, Diopside rejoined them. She had her usual grin on her face.

“Ah, there she is! You weren’t shattered!” Citrine was obviously joking now, Blue noted.

“So what’d you learn?” Chryss asked.

“Well, I learned that I’m supposed to mind my own business and to get back with my squad.” She smiled, a small amount of pride in her face.

“Stars, she is in a bad mood.” Aquamarine shook her head.

“Is it not normally like this?” Blue piped up. Was this not how a general would command respect?

“Not really.” Citrine replied, “She’s pretty strict, but usually we can joke around with her. I guess she’s just having a bad day.”

“Hm.” Blue replied, turning her gaze to the one eyed general.

……….

“You all know the drill!” Peach called to her soldiers, “And if you don’t have the more experienced gems in your squadron explain. Get your weapons, and get in position!”

“Wha-... what do I do?” Blue scrambled to run along with Chryss the best she could, she hated feeling this lost.

“Just summon your preferred weapon and follow my lead.” she replied.

“I-... I don’t have a weapon.” as the words escaped Blue’s lips, she felt herself growing more panicked.

“You don’t?!” Chryss hissed under her breath.

“No…”

Chryss cursed quietly in ancient gem, “Follow me, we’re gonna have to go see Bismuth.”

Chryss took Blue’s hand and they wove in and out of soldiers until they made their way to Peach, in front of everyone.

“What now?” Peach groaned, “Why must your squadron pick the worst days to fall apart on me?! Go on now, lay it one me.”

“I’m really sorry but Blue doesn’t have a weapon…”

Blue looked down at the floor sheepishly, she had no wish to displease the commander anymore than she already had, no less in front of that many soldiers.

“She doesn’t?” there was a surprise in her voice, “Hm. Were you more of a diplomat, Blue?”

“Yes.”

“I guess that explains it.” Peach looked away from her, “Chryss, take her to the forge and have Bis get her a weapon. Get right back here when you’re done!”

Blue breathed a sigh.

As they walked down the hill, Chryss turned to Blue, “Well that went slightly better than I thought.”

Blue smiled, “Yes, I guess so.”

“You got me out of morning drills!” She laughed and aimed a playful punch into Blue’s shoulder, “Nice going!”

Neither Chryss or Blue said much more than that on the way to the forge, they both just looked around at the scene in front of them. Gems were still waking up and running drills with their generals. A Jasper was running laps around the camp with her soldiers, others were talking around fires, and still others ran maintenance missions to keep the camp running smoothly. As they approached the forge, a light smoke blew into their faces. Chryss coughed, Blue didn’t.

“Hey Chryssie, what can we do for ya?” Bis greeted her as they walked into the forge.

“My friend here needs to be fitted for a weapon.” Chryss replied, bouncing on her feet a little.

“I see! What weapon would you like… erm… what’s yer’ name?” Bis addressed Blue kindly.

“Blue.”

“Blue. What weapon would you like and we can get you fitted for size and weight and such.” Bis leaned over the large table that the others used to hold tools and other miscellaneous objects, and gave a friendly smile.

“She’s actually not sure of a weapon. Are you, Blue?” Chryss looked up at her.

“No, I’m not sure.”

“Ah ok, that’s alright.” Bis left her post to walk with them, “Here, come with me, you can try out some things to see what you’d like.”

She led them around to a room with solid walls and a few test dummies with fake gems on their forms. The room was poorly decorated and was quite bland to look at, but it accomplished its purpose.

The next few hours was spent with Bis demonstrating different weapons, Blue trying them out, and Chryss patiently watching the entire scene. And though Blue spent what felt like an eternity trying out weapon after weapon, she refused to settle on a weapon that didn’t feel right to her. None of the weapons had felt right to her… Until…

“What about this one?” Bis held a large double sided axe in her hands, stars were engraved into each side.

She demonstrated the basics of how she could wield it and then handed the weapon to her. As soon as she felt its weight in her hands, she knew that this could be the one. She swung it into the air, a grin on her face.

“This is the one.”

“The axe, huh? Hm. Unusual for a Kyanite to be wielding an axe, but then again, Rose quartz’s don't usually wield a sword now do they?”

“Hm.” She replied, still enamoured with the weapon.

“I’ll get on making you your axe right away, Blue. You probably already know this, but just another reminder to only aim to destabilize.”

Blue nodded slowly.

As the two sat and waited for Bis to finish Blue’s axe, Blue turned to her friend and asked,

“Why don’t you aim to shatter your opponents? Wouldn’t that be more efficient?”

Chryss took in a sharp, long intake of breath, “We’d be just as bad as them, Blue. We aren’t just fighting for this planet; we’re fighting for our beliefs.”

[quarterfromcanon]

Midnight, Fright and Candlelight

Heather & Valencia - Femslash February - Day 6 - Storm [1,426 words]

A rare spattering rain coated the opaque windows. The ongoing drought meant there were comparatively few drops crashing down from the clouds, but still the occasional slash of lightning - glaring white and lined in blue - cast the buildings below in stark silhouette before plunging their street back into darkness. Heather and Valencia were spending a quiet night at home, with Heather flipping through her latest copy of Glamour while Valencia got sucked into a Dateline mystery.

“V, are you really sure you wanna watch this while we’re in the middle of a storm?” Heather asked without looking up when the program cut to its first commercial break.

“It sets the mood.”

“And sets you on edge.”

“I’ll be fine. I know I have you here to protect me.” Valencia stretched her legs across the couch and tucked her feet behind Heather’s back.

“From the already jailed perpetrator of a decades-old crime,” Heather noted and turned the page.

“We don’t know that yet. Sometimes the person they arrested doesn’t seem like the one who did it.” Valencia grabbed the blanket behind Heather’s head. She spread the cover over both their laps.

“Fair point.” Heather stole a glance at Valencia during the next advertisement. Her body was coiled, tense, and her fingers were rubbing absentmindedly at a frayed string on the blanket. Heather reached out and stilled Valencia’s nervous fidgeting. She caressed Valencia’s palm with the backs of her fingers. “Just remember that this episode is set in Florida. In 1998.”

“Oh, it’s back on.” Valencia held Heather’s hand but was lost once more to the documentary.

“Yep, I’m gonna end up Big Spooning you with the lights on.”

“Shh... but, yes, probably.”

As the story unfolded, Heather felt Valencia’s toes wriggle against her spine in a kind of horizontal foot tap. She smiled but allowed Valencia’s television immersion to continue without further comment. 

The majority of the program passed uneventfully. Valencia voiced her opinions and predictions aloud every break. Heather either concurred or pointed out contradictory evidence.

“How are you catching all this and reading at the same time?”

Heather shrugged. “Music and sound cues usually give you a hint when the guy’s saying something important. I just pause where I’m at every time there’s a dramatic background noise.”

“Your mind fascinates me.”

“Right back at you, scaredy-cat.”

Valencia rolled her eyes but that didn’t stop her from scooting nearer as the show described more alarming details. The host teased a shocking third act reveal when they returned from the show’s sponsors.

Then the power went out.

Valencia yelped and accidentally kicked Heather’s back in her haste to sit upright. Heather winced but circled an arm around Valencia’s shoulders when she leaned in close.

“I can get some of your candles,” Heather suggested. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned on the flashlight.

“And leave me here on the couch by myself? I don’t think so. I’m coming with you.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured.” Heather gathered the discarded blanket in her arms and returned it to the back of the couch. She held out her hand and wove her fingers between Valencia’s with a reassuring squeeze.

“You were right; you seem totally fine.”

Valencia elbowed her but then hugged Heather’s entire arm to her chest. “Shut up.”

Heather grinned and pressed a kiss to Valencia’s hairline. She set off in the direction of their bedroom with Valencia in tow. The process of simply crossing that space was comically slow with Valencia startling at every noise and peering around for the source.

They heard a soft but heavy thump, followed by metallic jingling. Valencia’s scream was so sharp that Heather’s right eye closed in an involuntary wink.

“Babe, it’s just Shadow. You bought her that collar. She must’ve woken up from her nap behind the yoga basket.”

Valencia caught sight of a round and furry outline near their feet. She crouched and hefted their drowsy feline into her arms. “Oh, my sweet baby. Did you hear that Mamá was scared and come to save the day?” 

The attention earned her a purr, but the cat’s eyes were trained over her shoulder, locked on a distant corner. Her tail swished back and forth against Valencia’s side.

“Oh God, what is she looking at?” Valencia hefted their pet a little higher until they were face to face. “¿Ves algo, mi sombra pequeña? Move your tail once for yes and twice for no. ¿Es un fantasma? ¿Un asesino? ¿El fantasma de un asesino?” Her eyes widened. “Si es el fantasma de un asesino, tienes que decirme. I can’t believe Josh was right; cats are haunted.”

“When you’re done asking our tabby if she sees the ghost of a murderer, I’ve got the bag of candles,” Heather interrupted.

Valencia jumped. “I didn’t even notice that you walked away.”

“It’s okay. You were distracted by a possibly possessed toaster.” Heather flicked on the lighter from her nightstand and touched it to the wick of the first candle. “Plus I left the flashlight with you.”

She retrieved her phone from the middle of a shelf, shut off the app, and pocketed the cell. 

Valencia set Shadow back on the floor with an affectionate scratch between the ears. “Where should we set these up?”

“One in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, the four corners of the living room, and then one on the coffee table. We can wait until later for the bedroom.”

Valencia nodded, accepted the proffered first candle from Heather, and got to work. Soon the surrounding rooms were illuminated in flickering gold. A familiar, vaguely autumnal scent filled the air -- something akin to corncobs warmed over a bonfire. Heather returned to the couch and beckoned for Valencia to join her. They were afforded a moment of tranquility before thunder rumbled and made Valencia jolt in alarm.

Heather rested her cheek against the top of Valencia’s head. “Hey, do you wanna play one of those car games people used to like when we were kids?”

“Which one?”

“Going On A Picnic? You’ve gotta remember a lot. It could keep your mind off things.”

Valencia wrinkled her nose. “Picnics attract ants.”

Heather laughed. “Okay, fine. Going On A Trip?”

“All right,” Valencia consented with a shrug.

“Cool. Start us off.”

“We’re going on a trip, and we’re going to bring... your axe.”

Heather pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh my god, babe, it’s supposed to be like ‘apples’ or ‘apricots.’ We aren’t hiking with Jack Torrance.”

“What?” Valencia protested innocently. “You like taking me into the wild. Realistically, we’d need protection.”

Heather considered it for a minute. “Okay. I’ll give you that one. We’re going on a trip, and we’re going to bring my axe and a beach ball.”

“In the middle of the woods?”

“There’s a lake. I like the water. Just a heads-up: K is gonna be kayak.”

“Nice try. K is mine.”

Heather lifted her eyebrows. “You’ve got a plan for that one already?”

“You’ll have to keep playing to find out.”

They passed the rest of the hour brainstorming their fictitious vacation. Shortly after midnight, just as they chose something (or, rather, someone) for the letter R, the power finally returned. The sudden volume of the TV coming back to life made them both flinch. Valencia sprang to grab the remote control and turn it off again.

“I’ll blow out the candles,” Heather offered.

“Actually, do you mind if we leave them?”

“Sure.”

Valencia walked to the light switch and restored the pleasant ambience. She strode to the couch and snuggled under Heather’s outstretched arm. “We have a game to finish.”

Heather nodded. She refrained from any knowing remarks while Valencia looped an arm around her middle, tucking a hand into Heather’s back pocket. Valencia’s head rested comfortably on Heather’s chest. Heather closed her eyes as Valencia began rattling off all their imaginary items and invitees thus far. The vibration from Valencia’s voice hummed against her skin.

“... olives, Paula, quesadillas, Rebecca, and...” Valencia gave a surprised but happy cry when the cat clambered onto Heather’s lap. “...Shadow!”

“You’d make sure the cabin didn’t have any mice, wouldn’t you, bud?” Heather asked.

They both ran their hands along the cat’s short fur. Shadow started to doze almost immediately.

“I know we just made all of this up to pass the time, but the trip is starting to sound kind of fun,” Valencia admitted.

Heather smiled and trailed the fingertips of her free hand over Valencia’s hair. “I’ll text both of them tomorrow.”